


“Dinner theatre”

by Creamteasforever



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: AU, Angelo's, Fatlock, Food, M/M, Remix
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-02
Updated: 2014-08-02
Packaged: 2018-02-11 06:58:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,854
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2058351
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Creamteasforever/pseuds/Creamteasforever
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wherein Sherlock solves a case without ever rising from the dinner table.</p>
            </blockquote>





	“Dinner theatre”

**Author's Note:**

> A pure Fatlock fic prompted by kamekdrawsblobs: “AU where instead of fasting during a case, Sherlock stuffs himself to help him think better - first episode, john watches in amazement as his new flatmate downs 3 plates at Angelo’s near-effortlessly.”
> 
> I played fast and loose with “Study in Pink” to get the necessary effect, but did try to stick to the text fairly closely for my remix (borrowing from the original pilot version of “Study in Pink,” which is neater and more efficient than the broadcast version.) There’ve been so many rewrites of the trip to Angelo’s that there was room for a mild parody of the way these scenes usually go in fics. Just a bit.
> 
> Enjoy!

“Where are we going?” John asked, as they walked along at a rapid pace. 

“Northumberland Street’s a five-minute walk from here. The restaurant at the corner is the closest to our flat, though the Ming Court at the end of Baker Street stays open ’til two. You can always tell a good Chinese by examining the bottom third of the door handle.”

“And you spend a lot of time examining restaurant handles, then?”

Sherlock looked amused. “I spend a lot of time in restaurants. Good places to watch people; they’re public yet everyone behaves as if they’ve erected invisible privacy walls between themselves and the people sitting a foot away. You wouldn’t believe how many times I’ve caught criminals just by being at the next table when they’re boasting over a curry. It’s picking the right table that’s the trick.”

“Uh…right,” John said. “So are we going to the Chinese restaurant?”

“Not tonight, we’re going to Angelo’s. It has two great virtues, one of which is that it’s right across from the address where we want to be. I have an encyclopaedic knowledge of every restaurant in Greater London, and this is one of the ones where the manager owes me a favour.”

“Is that its other virtue?”

“No. Well, that makes three I suppose, but the main one is that I feel like Italian tonight. Hungry?”

“I suppose so,” John said as they walked into the quiet bistro. He couldn’t help thinking they had some heavily-muscled security for a restaurant. “But I thought we were here to keep an eye out for the suspect, right? Are we actually going to eat?”

“Of course we are. We wouldn’t want to draw attention to ourselves, do keep up.” The owner was chatting with a waiter near the door; he immediately noticed them and graciously seated them at a table close to the front window. John guessed this was Sherlock’s usual people watching spot. 

“Hello, Angelo. This is John. Please don’t ask him if he’s my date, it was very tedious explaining the misunderstanding to my last murder suspect.”

The suave, bearded man looked slightly disappointed. “Is John a murder suspect too, then?”

“No. No, I’m not.” John said flatly. “Does he do this often?”

“Si, of course. He eats free here, and whoever comes with him. Though I’ve told him that if he carries on eating the way he does, I will have to think twice about that,” Angelo slapped Sherlock heartily on the back. “Getting heavier these days, eh? Wonderful, wonderful.”

Sherlock looked a little embarrassed. “He decided that he owed me a favour after I got him off a murder charge. Eating it out in pasta seemed to be the least I could do.”

“That is so,” Angelo noted sonorously. He leaned in confidentially towards John. “He cleared my name.” 

“A bit,” Sherlock pointed out. “I proved to Inspector Lestrade that he was busy housebreaking in a completely different part of town while the murder took place.”

“The prison sentence was very short,” Angelo explained. “So what is John, then?”

“New flatmate.”

He winked. “Then I will get you a candle for the table to celebrate.”

Sherlock sighed as Angelo swept away. “Never gives up hope, that man. What day is it?”

“Wednesday.”

“Good, I’m about due for another feed.” He opened the menu and ran a finger down the pages lovingly. “Their recipe list is small, but select.”

“Another? Hang on, surely you’ve eaten today?”

The detective looked slightly horrified. “Why wouldn’t I? Sometimes I want a little more than normal, that’s all. Or a lot more. I try to time feeds during cases, they help me think.”

“Your deductive skills are enhanced by heavy eating?”

“Exactly. Oh good, here’s the bread.” He dunked a crispy white slice into a dish of spiced olive oil. “You’ll love this, they make it themselves with fresh olives.”

John took a slice and dipped it in. It certainly tasted very nice. By the time he’d finished it, Sherlock had scoffed three. 

“Let’s see. I think some polenta is called for, with their delicious grilled sausage and rabe, and then on to the meal proper. Do you want some wine? Normally I’d have a glass of their house red, but I never drink on a case.”

“Wine’s not my vice. Look, could you just get me whatever it is you want? I’ve never been much for Italian.”

“You’ve never been much for Italian?” Sherlock shook his head sadly. “John, we’re talking about the cuisine of an entire country. Everything from simple minestrone to truffle-topped roasted veal. I assure you, some product of fair Italia must be to your liking, even if you don’t know what it is.”

“Um. To me, Italian food is spaghetti and pizza.” He trailed off. “That wasn’t the right thing to say, was it?”

He received a pitying look from his companion. “I’ll order the lasagne. Tonight is not the night for you to indulge your culture shock. We will rectify this later, have no doubt about that.”

The food came quickly. John didn’t care for the polenta – it seemed to be some kind of cornmeal dish and was a little too chewy for his liking – but the sausages were appealing, and he had to admit that they went well with the soft, slightly bitter rabe. Sherlock had told the kitchen to provide John with small plates  
(“Angelo does five courses, and I want you to try all of them”) but had normal-sized dishes for himself; he dug into them with gusto, clearly savouring every bite of the food. Next was the promised lasagne – the beef was rich, the cheese was unrecognisable but delightful, and the sauce tasted of fresh tomatoes, much better than the ordinary stuff that he would have bunged out of a tin. Sherlock hadn’t slowed up his pace; he’d been eating more quickly than John, so that they finished their plates around the same time.  
He spoke lovingly and knowledgably of Italian cuisine, explaining dishes that John had never heard of and wasn’t sure he’d be able to remember. Still, John rather fancied the way that the detective was visibly bulging, belly engorged by the rich food, and wondered whether his taste for that sort of thing would be as readable as everything else about him. Very possibly. He’d never mentioned it before. 

Third course, fish. A simple sole in butter sauce – Sherlock had two. John couldn’t help but think that his would have been better fried and dipped into vinegar with some chips alongside, but restrained himself. The look on Sherlock’s face was something akin to ecstasy; it would have been a pity to puncture. There was a pause while they waited for the next course (“cheese. Cheese is a course, John”). Sherlock played around with his phone and nibbled on a last piece of bread he’d used to mop up the fish sauce. John was starting to wonder how much the man could eat – he thought he’d be able to manage dessert if it wasn’t very heavy, but the detective’s capacity must be a marvel. 

At that point, there was a commotion at the front of the restaurant– two hulking bouncers seemed to be taking someone askance. A quietly dressed man in a checked cap stormed over to their table.

“Look ‘ere, are you Sherlock Holmes?”

“I have the honour of answering to that name,” said Sherlock with a distinguished air that might have been haughtiness and might, John suspected, have been the lazy contentment of someone who’d eaten far too much. 

“You texted me for a cab?”

“Mmm. Yes. Probably.”

“What’s taking you so long, then? I’ve been waiting outside for half an hour already!”

The detective’s eyes widened. “Oh dear me, I am sorry.” He sat bolt upright, holding a hand to his mouth either in embarrassment or in an attempt to repress a burp. “The murderer. I’m afraid I forgot all about you, I’ve been busy eating.” 

“So you’re calling me a crook, eh?” the cabbie snapped. 

“Aren’t you?” With a surprisingly graceful flourish, Sherlock produced a bottle out of nowhere. “Pills. Poison. Same modus operandus as the killer, and the fact that you responded to my text asking how you’d poisoned the victims by saying “come with me” is what you might call a dead giveaway. Angelo!”

The manager appeared, along with the bouncers. “This man bothering you, Sherlock?”

“Indeed. Call Lestrade for me and let him know you’d holding the suicide murderer, would you? I’ve got a meal to finish.”

Angelo snapped his fingers and the cabbie was grabbed, patted down, and neatly disarmed of a toy lighter and a nasty-looking hypodermic; John gave it a curious once-over, out of professional interest. The cabbie looked at Sherlock in bewilderment. “Thought you were a curious sort of man. Clever, like.”

“Indeed I am. Clever enough not to play other people’s games.”

"You’ve not even asked me anything. I’ve got things to tell you, important things." 

Sherlock tutted, turned away dismissively and looked towards John. “Sleight of hand. Invaluable in my profession. Now, where were we?”

“You were telling me what sort of dessert I ought to order,” John said weakly. His eyes followed the cabbie as the man was stuffed into the kitchen and disappeared from sight. A waiter bustled over with the forgotten cheese – Sherlock pounced on it happily and spoke between mouthfuls. 

“That’s right. Now, everyone will tell you to get the tiramisu but I would recommend the cannoli instead…”

John felt he’d better interrupt while he still had a chance. “Are you always like this?”

“I think so. I try to be.”

“So this is a day in the life of Sherlock Holmes. You run across half of London, make fun of Scotland Yard, rummage around for clues in skips, and then finish it all off by eating a huge meal and melodramatically revealing the killer?”

“It’s good, isn’t it?” The detective eyed him keenly. “You don’t object?”

“It’s bloody brilliant is what it is. You’re amazing.”

“Thank you. Not a sentiment I hear very often, even from those who depend on my expertise.”

“Well, I expect Lestrade wouldn’t, he thinks you’re too egotistical already,” John commented. “But no one else? No girlfriend to feed you up or anything?”

“Not at the moment. Widen your thinking.”

“Erm. No boyfriend to feed you up?”

“Not at the moment.” Sherlock leaned in as the cannoli arrived. “Position’s open. I’m not married to my work.”

“How sad,” John said lightly. “No one to help you with this, you mean?” He picked up one of the creamy cylinders and slowly, gently, moved it into the man’s mouth. Sherlock’s eyes widened as he sucked at it delicately, extracting all its white filling before biting down. John giggled lightly. 

Angelo, just off the phone with Scotland Yard, looked over and smiled at the unfolding scene. He’d always thought that Sherlock would come in with someone who properly appreciated his taste for food one day. John looked like just the type to be a feeder. 

Striking a match, he began to prepare a fresh candle.


End file.
